A Johnlock Reunion
by Bella E Haliday
Summary: My take on Sherlock's return. Oneshot.


"John".

John Watson turned towards the voice against his better judgement. He knew that voice. Knew it better than his own. And he'd been hearing it everywhere since-

He couldn't think about that day.

Trying not to think about it, he scanned the crowded street for the source of the voice. He knew, if it was _**him**_, he would be able to spot _**him**_ immediately.

"John".

The voice again. It was his imagination. That was what Dr Thompson kept telling him. Just his mind playing tricks on him.

He sighed, and continued his walk to the flat.

It was rather more difficult than it need have been, as he had started limping again a few weeks ago.

He knew it was psychosomatic. But that didn't mean he could make it go away. It was more complicated than that.

At the insistence of both Mrs Hudson and Mycroft, he had moved back into 221b. Now that he was back living there, he didn't think he would ever be able to move out, not even as he watched the reminders of _**him**_ slowly disappearing.

First, it was small things he noticed, like the fact that he went through a third of the milk they had gone through before. He missed the arguments about who would have to buy the next carton. He stopped cringing when he opened the fridge- he knew there were no more body parts. When he couldn't sleep (which was most nights) he lay awake listening. He almost cried the day he realised he was listening for the violin.

Mycroft took to calling on the flat, checking that John was eating, sleeping, things like that. John went through the motions to placate him. He refused to show the elder Holmes brother how much he was suffering.

But when Mycroft suggest they clear out _**his**_ room, John flew into a rage. He screamed and cried and told Mycroft to go- he didn't care where.

He wouldn't see Mycroft again for months, though John knew he was still being watched.

Greg was a comfort.

He took John out to the pub once a week, and tried (unsuccessfully) to get him to have a drink with different women. John always found it easier to sleep after these evenings, laughing and smiling with his friend.

Sometimes he even considered going after the women Greg suggested.

But there was always something –a nagging feeling at the back of his mind- that warned him that was paramount to betrayal. He couldn't do it, and Greg seemed to understand.

Molly dropped in once, just after he had moved back into the flat.

"I just wanted to see how you were doing," she said. He had made them tea, and they had talked, about their respective jobs, why they had both gone into medicine, the weather, anything that wasn't _**him**_.

Molly was the only one who seemed to resent John for his suffering.

"I know this can't be easy for you," she had said, "moving on. But you need to be careful not to let yourself become a burden on the rest of them. This is just as hard for them, you know".

She was wrong, it wasn't as hard for any of them.

Mrs Hudson fussed over John more than any of the others.

Though she still claimed that she was '_not your housekeeper_', she had taken to cooking and cleaning for John most days. She was careful never to mention _**his **_name, after an incident a month after John had moved back into the flat.

"It's good your back" she had said, "it's not right for both you and Sherlo-"

She never got the chance to finish what she was saying. John had broken down completely. He sobbed miserably, tears falling down his cheeks. He cried out when Mrs Hudson tried to comfort him. He hadn't cried since the funeral, and Mrs Hudson had never felt so helpless.

She had managed to coerce him back his bedroom, where she left him curled up with his back to the door. She had then hurried downstairs to call Mycroft and Greg. When she told them what had happened, they agreed not to say _**his **_name around John- at least not until he was ready to hear it.

The absence of that name created a silence none of them knew how to stifle with words.

When John let himself back into the flat, he was hit by the full force of what the place meant to him. His eyes took in the familiar skull on the mantelpiece, the knife that held the Cluedo board against the wall, the microscope, still sitting on the kitchen table. He took a deep breath and pushed past it all.

In the first few weeks after it had happened, he had taken to talking to _**him**_.

He would sit in his armchair, and imagine the familiar face of the consulting detective was across from him. He would tell _**him**_ about his day, the things he missed, the things he wished he could change.

He used to image what _**he **_would say, were _**he**_ really there.

He gave up this exercise when realised his delusions were flawed, he was putting too much of himself in his image of the detective.

Often when John was at work, Mrs Hudson would have Mycroft over for lunch.

"He's having nightmares," Mrs Hudson told the elder Holmes brother, "I hear him crying out in his sleep".

Mycroft had been expecting this.

"He doesn't want to move on. He worshipped the ground my brother walked on and now he's determined to preserve his memory".

"You're confusing worship and love" murmured Mrs Hudson.

Mycroft sneered slightly, but had the good sense not to say anything.

It was true John was having nightmares- dreams of tall buildings, and Richard Brook, and falling, endless falling.

To counteract these, he would lie awake for hours, fighting his heavy eyelids. He would read anything he could get his hands on, no longer for the joy of reading, but the endless stream of words kept the images of falling bodies at bay. When he ran out of books, letters, shopping lists, _anything_, or else when his eyes became too tired to read the words on the page, he would clean the flat. More than once, Mrs Hudson had found him in the early hours of the morning, up to his elbows in soapsuds, scrubbing the kitchen floor.

"This isn't healthy John".

He didn't disagree. But she knew he wouldn't change anytime soon. It would take a miracle to save the doctor from this destructive spiral.

And when it finally happened, no one could deny it was a miracle.

John had been sitting in his armchair. He hadn't eaten that day, he hadn't slept in the last week.

There was a knock at the door.

He had clambered to his feet, expecting Greg, and limped to the door.

He had opened it awkwardly and looked up to see the face that had haunted his dreams for months. The dark messy hair, the impossible eyes, the cheekbones. Perfect. Impossible. A face he had never dared hope to see again. It was _**him**_.

It couldn't be.

And yet there _**he**_ was, and John felt suddenly that he had been just waiting for his return.

"Would you like to come in?"

The exchange was awkward, to say the least. They were careful to keep the distance between them, not allowing the slightest brush of their hands as they walked to the kitchen.

"Would you like tea?"

_**He **_nodded, and John was glad of the chance to turn away from him.

When he turned back, cup in hand, he was surprised by how close _**he **_was standing.

They were barely an inch apart. John gulped, and held out the teacup.

_**He**_ took it, but placed it immediately on the table.

"John" _**he**_ whispered.

And suddenly their arms were around each other, leaning into once familiar scents and embracing each other with desperation.

John looked up into the face he had been dreaming about.

"Sherlock" he whispered.

And Sherlock claimed his mouth in one long, deperate kiss. A kiss that made John's miracle complete.


End file.
